Falling
by elleruth
Summary: It's Tuesday when Santana falls from the pyramid. By next Monday she's fallen in love. A week of Brittany/Santana, Santana POV.
1. Chapter 1 Tuesday

**Author's note:** A bit AU, Rachel/Santana friendship. Brittany/Santana  
After seeing her cry in Funk I couldn't get the image of a heartbroken Santana out of my head, and as a huge Brittana shipper, I had to write something.  
I've read a lot of fics with Rachel/Santana friendships too, so I added that in. I think their dynamic is great.

* * *

**Tuesday**

It was a Tuesday when Santana fell. She was late that day as well. Her Chemistry class had run over but she hadn't hurried to practice, she had gone the longer way through the school, past Brittany's English classroom. Brittany was always out late, she stayed behind to put the books away or to help the others in her "retard" class put their things away. Santana didn't like it being called the retard class, she felt bad to Brittany, but that's just what it was.

Britt didn't mind if she was late to Cheerios, because everyone in the school knew she was the best. She didn't even need to turn up to practice and she'd still be able to dance, lift, jump, do everything better than the rest of them. Maybe that's why she didn't mind being in the retard class either.  
Santana thought she could catch up with Brittany and they could be late together, then it wouldn't matter. They would just stand close together and wait, and Santana would look at Brittany and see her concentrating on keeping a disinterested glare on her face. Just like she'd taught her.  
Brittany wasn't anywhere down the corridor, and when Santana looked around the classroom door the room was empty, just the teacher. Brittany must have gone already. She was late now, and she wasn't going to find Brittany, so Santana didn't bother rushing.

She'd been struggling holding the smile, too. Fifteen Cheerios were stacked, in various lifts and formations, on top of each other, Santana at the very top. Others were stretching nearby, or running through routines. She often thought how ironic it was that Coach Sylvester spent most of their practices telling them to smile, whilst she had the cruellest sneer her face could manage.

There wasn't anything she could blame it on in particular, much to her dismay. Lack of practice, maybe. It hadn't been long since she'd taken over from Quinn - that's what she'd tell people who dared ask her, but she knew it was a crap excuse. The Head Cheerleader doesn't just fall from the top of a formation for no reason. There was no wind, it wasn't raining, and the girls underneath her were steady. Coach Sylvester wasn't even yelling.

She hadn't really thought about any of these things until afterwards. The first thing she did was scream, because she'd landed badly on her ankle and heard a crunch, and shit, it hurt. She screamed, and the rest of the squad had scrambled down, shouting at Coach to do something. Sylvester did nothing, of course, just stalked away; shouting something Santana wasn't listening to. A few of the newest recruits scurried behind her, but most of them stayed, swarming around the crumpled mess on the ground. Others were running in from across the field, and there were a few girls she knew (though not the names of) trying to sit her up, but she didn't want to. Her back hurt, but to sit up she'd have to twist her body and move her ankle, which was throbbing so hard she could hear the blood rushing through her. She was about to scream at everyone to leave her alone, but stopped – looking up instead, turning her neck as far as she could, and scanning the swarm of uniforms. She didn't see what she was looking for, but she couldn't be bothered with screaming and she knew she couldn't get up, so she turned her head into the crook of her elbow and the cool grass, and relinquished to the pulling hands.

* * *

Brittany wasn't in school today, then. Santana thought she could have missed her at practice, what with all the commotion, but she probably just had a stomach bug or something. She was off sick, that's why she didn't run over to Santana's side and why she wasn't waiting at the gate this morning. Santana was sure of it. She didn't turn up at the hospital either.  
Rachel was there, dancing around the doctors and nurses as they wheeled Santana in, shouting things about correct drug dosages and the risks associated with the—she wasn't listening.  
"Rachel, shut it."  
Rachel was quiet then, or maybe she had been restrained.

* * *

It wasn't broken, they told her, just bruised, possibly with a small fracture. "We don't fit casts to ankles or feet", the doctor said. Apparently they heal themselves; you just have to limp around like an idiot for weeks. Definitely no cheerleading.  
"So, what happened?"  
Santana was beginning to regret letting Rachel in, but she didn't have much choice. She wasn't in a room; just sat on a bed with a faded, strangely patterned curtain all the way around her, it wouldn't have taken much for Rachel to find her.  
"I thought Mercedes and Kurt told you already?"  
"Well, if you're not going to talk about it and you don't the notes from Glee I might as well go."  
"Fine," She dragged out the vowels and whined, but she was laughing at Rachel's mock-fluster as she pretended to gather her things together. "I can't stand this place. I'm not sitting here by myself. Freaks me out."  
Rachel grinned, she knew how to get her way. Santana was a push-over once you stopped being intimidated by her.  
"Quinn was surprised, she said she only quivered once, and that was when she was 3 months pregnant... Are you... okay?"  
They both spluttered. Partly at Quinn's expense, but mainly at the idea of Santana letting any boy impregnate her. Santana stopped laughing first, and she couldn't look at Rachel anymore.  
"I guess I just, sort of, let go. I just stopped."  
"Brittany wasn't in today."  
"I know."


	2. Chapter 2 Wednesday

**Wednesday**

They had already sat through some DVD that not one of them other than Rachel knew the title of. After valiant attempts by Quinn and Santana to persuade Rachel to let them watch a DVD of their choice once, they realised it was better to just let her choose first on DVD nights, and maybe if they acted appreciatively enough, they'd get second choice.  
It didn't help that Rachel was nearly always the host, either. Quinn's house wasn't Quinn's anymore, and she was living with a different person every time someone thought to ask. They did Brittany's sometimes, but her little sister would run around the house screaming until the movie was ruined. Santana didn't like inviting people to hers, it was too small, and her parents weren't warm and welcoming like Rachel's dads.  
Quinn had the armchair near the window. She didn't usually watch the movie, but she would have her hand on her stomach and whisper to it as she curled up under a blanket. Rachel would have told her to be quiet, but she knew that Quinn needed somewhere to feel at home, and she always seemed to here. Rachel herself sat on the floor in front of the TV, staring up at the screen with a wide-eyed wonder that would have been endearing if they hadn't all known she had seen the movie dozens of times before.  
Santana and Brittany shared the couch.

This evening, Quinn had fallen asleep about 10 minutes in, and Rachel was as entranced by a movie as anyone could possibly be. So entranced that Brittany had managed to steal the bowl of popcorn from her side, so that her and Santana had spent most of the movie throwing it at Quinn to see if it would wake her. As the movie started to come to an end, and the climatic scenes had been replaced with sombre, quiet ones that were making Rachel reach for the tissues, they ran out of popcorn.  
Santana put the bowl on the floor, and when she sat up again, Brittany was offering her pinky.  
She had once asked Santana why it was called that, because "it's not pink at all", to which Santana told her it was because pink is the colour of nice things, and holding pinkies was one of the nicest things. Brittany was content enough, until she asked her dad, who had angrily told her it came from the Dutch word for "little finger", and this was something she should know. Brittany never told Santana though, she had seemed too happy with her own reason to spoil it for her.  
They leaned back, simultaneously, silently giggling as they swung their joint hands.  
Santana tried to pull out her tight ponytail, but she was left-handed, and her left hand was involved in a pinky-deathgrip in Brittany's lap.  
"Here-!" Brittany sat up, but Rachel didn't take kindly to interruptions of any sort, and sharply shushed her. "I'll do it." She finished off in a whisper and smiled at Santana, unlocking their entwined fingers to loosen the red hair tie. Her elegant fingers deftly moved through Santana's thick curls, and while Brittany concentrated on not pulling too hard, Santana found it difficult to keep from blushing. Brittany's eyes weren't just one colour, like her own; they were a myriad of speckles of different shades of blue, blurred together to create what Santana thought must be the most beautiful eyes in the world. She didn't really think this though, not consciously, but she couldn't drag her own brown eyes away until Brittany had moved and was whispering something in her ear, her nose buried in Santana's glossy hair.  
"You look different with your hair down."  
"Don't you like it?"  
"I do. It's shiny."  
"No, it's too thick and wiry...And it's all one colour," she reached out and ran a finger over Brittany's bangs, pushing them to the side. "Yours is like, loads of shades. Your eyes too. It's nicer than mine"  
Brittany smiled, but just turned back to the TV. As Brittany found Santana's pinky between their laps, Santana laid back and let Brittany take her finger, but she just gazed at the TV.

There was a woman on screen crying over an old photograph of her and a smiling man. She was smiling in the photo too, but not anymore. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she tore it up and threw it out of her window. The pieces fluttered down from a high apartment building, with the New York skyline behind. As they fell down to the streets, you could see the smiles of the once-happy people float away from each other. Rachel was blowing her nose noisily, but Santana's tears rolled down her cheeks silently.


	3. Chapter 3 Thursday

"Santana, I can't, I'm already running late. And besides, if you can't walk or drive, surely you should be staying home?"  
Santana was sitting cross-legged on her bed, one foot awkwardly stretching out, picking at the hemline on her Cheerios skirt.  
"But, Quinn-"  
"I'll give you a ride in tomorrow, or someone else will, but I can't this morning. It's not easy to get ready for school when you're throwing up from morning sickness-"  
Quinn felt guilty then, for bringing up her pregnancy when Santana was upset. "Look, San. I know why you want to come in, but it's only a day. You saw us last night...I'll talk to her, okay? I've really got to go, hun. See you tomorrow."

Santana threw the phone onto the sofa across her room, but it bounced and fell to the floor. It clunked and the battery probably fell out but she didn't go to pick it up. She flopped backwards onto her back and gazed up at the ceiling instead. The plaster was peeling.  
She followed the lines of the cracked paintwork. Quinn and Rachel were acting weird lately, she thought. They were both being really nice to her, not that they weren't normally, but sympathetically, cautiously nice. As if something sad had happened to Santana. She'd hurt her foot, but that didn't make sense. They both kept going on about Brittany.  
She sat up and leaned over the edge of the bed, grabbing the phone, its back and its battery. She slotted them back together and reached for the Cheerios jacket that lay crumpled on the floor, snuggling into its heavy warmth as she waited for the phone to come back to life.  
She texted Rachel, who was more likely to be honest – probably brutally so – than anyone else.  
_Why have you and Q being acting so weird around me? X  
_It wasn't long before she replied;  
_We just want to make sure you're ok._

It was really annoying her now. She didn't know what either of them meant. No-one was ever this nice to her, even the people in Glee club. It didn't bother her though; she knew she wasn't nice enough to anyone else to deserve it. And she had Brittany.

_I can't come in today, no-one would drive me. You want to come over at lunch? :) xxx  
_She just didn't want to spend the whole day by herself, that's all.

"You have my jacket. " Brittany pointed at Santana, smiling. She thought she'd lost it.  
"I do?" Santana looked down, the sleeves reached halfway down her hands, and she could see the shadow of hers hanging in her closet. She bit her lip. "Can I keep it on?" She'd slept in it.  
"Sure! But I want it back. And I can't have yours, it's too small." She laughed and kicked her foot out to show her height. Santana smiled back, thinking about how Brittany wasn't ungainly or gangly, her height didn't lessen her elegance, it just enhanced it. Other girls were jealous, but Santana didn't need to be, it wouldn't be right on her, it was Brittany.  
They both lay on the bed, Santana reached out her hand and found Brittany's, messily grasping her fingers. Brittany giggled and squeezed her hand.  
"I missed you." Santana turned her head sideways, and Brittany mirrored her. They both smiled.  
"Me too. Sorry I was ill on Tuesday."  
"Britt, you don't apologise for being sick. And I saw you last night."  
"I don't? But Quinn and Rachel said it made you sad. After you went home last night they told me off for not giving you tissues at the end of the film."  
"Did Quinn talk to you this morning?"  
Brittany looked away from Santana, to the corner above the door. She seemed to think if she couldn't see Santana, Santana couldn't see her. "Umm, no."  
"Did she tell you not to tell?"  
"Yes."  
They were quiet for a while. Matching clothes, matching ponytails, matching smiles. Santana on the left side of the bed, Brittany on the right, their hands meeting in the middle. Symmetry was their best trait.

~~  
"San?"  
"Mmhm?"  
"Are you like Kurt?"  
"Am I what?"  
Her eyes were locked with Brittany's, but the blonde didn't say anything, just watched Santana. Santana looked back, searching the blue eyes, but they didn't give anything away. A few seconds, then her stomach lurched. Her heart was thundering in her chest and echoing through her ears, as the full meaning of what Brittany meant became apparent. She became suddenly aware of their entwined fingers in the middle of the bed, and how her own hand was hot and sticky. She was still staring into Brittany's eyes. "I-I don't-" Her mouth was dry but her eyes were wet. She didn't blink in case they spilled over, and tried to steady her lips, that were quivering as her shaky breath passed through them.  
"It doesn't matter," Brittany said quickly, sensing she'd done something wrong, "I don't mind."


	4. Chapter 4 Friday

**Friday**

Santana lay in bed, looking at her window, through the slats in the blinds, at the rain hammering down outside. It was 6.45, and she had to get up in 15 minutes. She willed the seconds to drag out slowly, because even though she had been laid, wide awake, on her lumpy mattress for an hour, and would've liked to get up, she didn't want to go to school. Not today. And the rain, too. It hit the glass sharply and consistently, never dying down, never quieting enough for her to relax and fall asleep. It had kept her up nearly all night, leaving her alone in the dark with this unrelenting noise, and her thoughts. People always talked about how your worries come to you at night, how thoughts you manage to push aside during the day, or are just too busy to notice, creep up on you and take over. It had never been something she'd experienced before, and she didn't realise it herself, but even if the rain had stopped, she wouldn't have slept.  
Most people would think that Santana would be the kind of person who looked like a statue in her sleep. Or like one of the princesses, Snow White or Sleeping Beauty, perfectly still and serene. But Santana tended to toss and turn, never lying still whilst she was asleep. She dreamed more vividly than she lived. Sometimes of things she wouldn't admit to, like the moment of stepping onto a stage in front of an audience who came just to see her, and sometimes of things that she didn't really know or understand. Spirals of emotions and feelings, tumbling over each other in a falling mess through her mind, until they collected in a heap that was so overpowering it woke her. Only when she awoke, she couldn't remember what they were, let alone work out what they meant.  
Santana always hated that, ever since she realised it, no matter how brave or heroic any of those princesses seemed to be, it was always some corny, undefined thing that saved them in the end. The stories called it "true love", but she wasn't sure that being in love could save you, not from evil stepmothers and witches, or even from yourself.

She waited until the red light said 6:59, then switched it off before the alarm sounded. She lifted up the duvet and peered at her ankle. It was still swollen and painful, and she wondered if that coupled with the rain would be a good enough excuse to skip school. Maybe for the school, but not for her parents.  
She got ready quickly, automatically, but stared at the mirror for a long time before pulling her hair back. She was starting to understand why girls like Rachel and Tina kept their hair down; you could hide behind it in a way that was comforting, even if everyone could still see you, you felt sheltered and protected. She would have kept it down for those reasons exactly, but by doing that everyone would know. Of course, they wouldn't know what was really happening, what thoughts were rushing through Santana's head, but they'd know something was up, and to her, that was just as bad. So she pulled it back, and headed out of her room, grabbing her schoolbag on the way. As she was closing the door behind her she saw Brittany's Cheerios jacket crumpled on the floor. She'd left it yesterday lunchtime, again.  
Luckily it was towards the end of the time Brittany had free for lunch that she'd asked the question – the one that had been circling through Santana's consciousness ever since, the one that she had remained silent to for the longest time, before telling Brittany to get out. When she didn't, and sat up, biting her lip and looking at Santana worriedly, Santana had shouted. Shouted, then screamed, then hurled the jacket at the door as Brittany disappeared behind it. She thought she might have heard Brittany crying as she left, but Santana was concentrating on muffling her own sobs in a pillow to be able to tell.

When she got into the car, she flung the jacket onto the backseat, and her bag onto the passenger seat next to her. She started driving, unable to get rid of the thought of Brittany's tear stained cheeks and red eyes. Santana knew she would've killed anyone else if they had done that to her, but she'd never contemplated what she'd do, or how she'd feel, knowing that she had done it.  
She drove, eyes stead-fast and steely on the road ahead, but she couldn't shake the feeling off. Brittany crying, being mad at her or scared of her. Forgiving her. She_ would_ forgive her, of course. She would forgive anyone. Santana didn't think she deserved forgiveness, or Brittany at all. But that was what she wanted. She wanted Brittany to forgive her, to smile softly and nestle her head in the space between Santana's shoulder and neck, like it was Brittany who was being comforted, so she could carry on pretending it wasn't her who needed this most. And when the tears came, because they would, she could turn her face against Brittany's neck, and the taller girl could lift her toes off the ground, just for a second, so she wouldn't have to hold it all in, just for a second. She wanted Brittany to nod and tell her she understood, because then Santana wouldn't have to explain it to anybody, she wouldn't have to understand it herself. And then Brittany would let her cry, and she would hold her until everything had stopped. It didn't feel like it would ever stop, though, it felt like she would feel this way forever, thinking about Brittany and this twisting feeling in the pit of her stomach, mixed with the thundering of her heart, and the fluttering feeling of happiness that came from so far within you that you couldn't tell if it was your brain, your heart or your soul.  
She swerved the car to the side of the road and yanked the handbreak, letting the car judder slowly to a stop, as she unfastened her seatbelt. She clambered between the two front seats and collapsed in a messy fall onto the back seats, where she found Brittany's jacket. She didn't put it on this time; she pulled it towards her and buried her face into it, clinging tightly to the fabric and trying to listen to the rain and the traffic, and not her noisy, tear-choked breaths or her head, that was rationalising this horrible concoction of feelings and emotions into the simplest emotion to name, the one in all the fairytales, the one that always saved the princess.


	5. Chapter 5 Friday II

**Author's note: **Sorry this chapter took so long coming. I really didn't know how to progress it, so this chapter is really a part two to the previous chapter. It continues straight on and isn't the next day like the rest of them :)

* * *

The rain didn't stop all morning. It came crashing down on the roof of Santana's car persistently, sometimes slowing to a steady patter, but then falling with such force it sounded like thousands of metal pins rattling off the roof. Each with their own tiny force, but together their clatter was so loud the sound of cars driving by was muffled to a dull hum.  
She didn't cry for long. Long enough for her to be late for school, and long enough for her eyes to turn red and bloodshot, but not long.  
The small clock on the dashboard blinked as the red lights flickered onto the new minute. She was waiting until her house would be empty, until everyone had left for the day.  
It was cold without the engine on, and the windows were covered in a silver sprinkling of condensation from the way the cold from the outside hit the warmth created by her breath on the inside. Slowly, as the tiny prickles of water droplets spread over the glass, shapes began to appear. They were shapes drawn on by sticky fingers after eating fries and cheeseburgers in the backseat of the car after a movie. Santana watched them and followed the blurry outline of the faded lines across the window. There were messy five-point stars that she had drawn and silly smiley faces and cartoony suns with lines sticking out that Brittany had meticulously done with her pinky finger. In the corner of the window pane there were two letters, a wobbly lower case "b" beside an elegant "S", with a small plus sign in between them.

**b+S**

Santana didn't remember writing the letters until she sat up and traced over the S with her finger, leaving another copy behind on the glass. She remembered licking the salt off her left index finger and going to write it next to Brittany's b, but she had been stopped by the delicate touch of Brittany's fingers.  
"You're using the other hand."  
Santana didn't remember what she had replied with, but she remembered that she had to steady her breath before she did, because it caught in her throat when Brittany's fingers rested on hers. Then how her hand had grazed against Santana's forearm and she had to close her eyes and swallow, before sitting upright, and tipping Brittany, who had been leaning on top of her, off against the other door. They had laughed, and Santana had driven them back, and she had never thought about it again. That was months ago. Months ago, and she recognised those feelings as the same as the ones she had now. Only back then they were fleeting and came only with moments. Now they were constant whether she was with Brittany or not. She used to ignore them, now she couldn't. She turned away from the window, to the other side of the car. This window didn't bear any imprints of memories; the angle of the rain had coated it, and now sheets of water slid down it. Santana remembered learning in Biology how water molecules were made up of hydrogen and oxygen, two oppositely charged atoms, stuck together. Two opposites, yet they always found their way to each other.

The rain eased off to a gentle hiss. It had been quiet for a while now. No cars, everyone had already gone to work and school, and anyone who didn't was stuck inside.  
Through the drumming of the rain Santana heard a quiet tapping. She had closed her eyes, and was leaning against the side of the car, one cheek against the cool plastic. She held the sleeve of Brittany's jacket up to her face, like she had never done with a blanket as a child. Through all this mess, it was this closeness to Brittany that soothed all of the aches. She thought it was the same closeness that caused them too. The tapping of a fingernail turned into the knocking of knuckles against the glass. Where they hit they wiped off the condensation, causing water droplets to roll down the pane, obscuring the old fingerprint drawings as they fell.

Brittany peered in through the window. Santana had her back to her, and Brittany couldn't tell if she was asleep, ignoring her, or hadn't heard. She could see her jacket, draped over Santana. It was cold outside. She wanted it back, but as she watched Santana, who wasn't asleep, use the corner of the sleeve to wipe her eyes, Brittany thought that Santana probably needed it more.  
She stopped knocking; she knew Santana wouldn't want to turn around. Not if she'd been crying, especially if she had been crying about Brittany herself. Instead, she slowly and carefully opened the door, just enough, and slid inside.  
Santana never treated Brittany like she was dumb, or didn't understand things, except now. She was acting like Brittany didn't know, as if she hadn't realised the first time Santana's hand had recoiled and her cheeks turned pink when Brittany entwined her fingers through Santana's.  
She knew that it was because this was something that she understood, but Santana didn't. She didn't really understand the words, or how someone fitted to the right word. That was why she had asked if Santana was like Kurt, but she didn't know why it mattered. She could tell it mattered to Santana though, who had probably thought about it too much, and tried to understand it. Brittany didn't think she needed to understand it. It wasn't like math or science, that you need to know, it was just something you felt.

Brittany sat gently next to Santana, who had turned around sharply at the noise of the door opening. She dropped the sleeve that her fingers were wrapped around, and started wiping her eyes and nose with the back of her hand, trying not to look so pitiable and pathetic. Brittany picked up the jacket sleeve, already damp, and offered it to Santana.  
"No, I don't need to-" Her voice trailed off, too thick and breathless from her running nose and shaking chest.  
"Okay."  
Brittany put her arm around Santana's quivering shoulder and pulled her close to her own chest; so that Santana's wet eyelashes left marks on the neckline of Brittany's top, and her nails left small crescent moon shaped imprints on Brittany's arms, where Santana had grasped them tighter than she realised. Brittany dropped her head so that her nose and lips gently rested against Santana's head, and brushed her fingers across the arm that was wrapped around her waist.  
After neither one of them had moved for a while, Brittany closed her eyes and planted a light kiss on the top of Santana's head, and smiled as she felt the pressure from the nails digging into her arm ease off.

* * *

**Author's note #2:** I finally wrote from Brittany POV! Hurrah! I hope it turned out okay. I think I needed her to explain some things that I couldn't do from Santana's point of view because she didn't know it. Although writing from Brittany's is much harder, gah.


	6. Chapter 6 Saturday

When Santana woke up it was because of the bright light streaming through her eyelids. It wasn't raining anymore, but when she groggily opened her eyes she could make out her window covered in water droplets, so it must have only just stopped. She shifted her body, stretching out her legs so that her feet released themselves from the tangle of bedsheets. It was uncomfortably hot; she wanted to get up and have a cool shower, but with the dusty yellow light filling her room and knowing that she probably wouldn't be this relaxed for the rest of the day made her want to stay snuggled in her warm cocoon all day.

She had barely been to school all week, but realising it was Saturday and she was free to do whatever she wanted - lie here all day - alleviated the pressure that had been resting on her all week of having to go out and act normal and evade questions.  
Even though she knew that save for her closest friends, no-one else in school, not even Puck or any of the Cheerios or even Miss Pillsbury would be able to sense a single thing wrong with her, she felt they might.

On the outside, she looked exactly the same as she always did, but because inside she felt completely changed, it seemed as if everyone would see right through her facade and notice how she was thinking differently about everything now.  
When Rachel walked by in a short skirt, she looked. She looked at how her slender legs disappeared underneath the skirt and how as she moved, the skirt did too and more flesh was revealed.  
If Quinn was moaning about how her breasts wouldn't stop growing from the pregnancy, as she rolled her eyes and told her to stop being gross, she looked at the fabric stretched across her friend's chest.  
When Puck flexed his muscles and sidled up to her, a gleam in his eye and his hands large and strong on her waist, she surveyed his masculine form and the bulge in his jeans.  
None of it made any difference, they were just Rachel's legs in a disgusting skirt, and it was just Quinn sharing overly personal information about her chest, and it was just Puck perving on her again.  
Nothing.  
How was she supposed to find an answer? This wasn't something she could ask anyone else, and she didn't know herself. It would be fine if it weren't for Brittany, skewing her judgement.

When Brittany was sat next to her, or walked by in her skirt, or if their skin touched, she wasn't just looking, she was staring. She couldn't help the staring, and it was embarrassing. One time, after a gruelling Cheerios session she had felt so awkward that she didn't set foot in the changing rooms again for a whole week. Her cheeks had flushed when she caught the eye of some Cheerio in the changing rooms who made her realise what she'd been doing.  
The girl had given her a look of "What the hell?", and she had looked back to where her eyes had just been fixed, and saw Brittany hopping around with her top stuck over her head, leaving her stomach, abs, purple bra and all, beautifully on display.  
She couldn't just leave Brittany there, for starters she was stuck, and secondly, it was _so_ distracting. Santana didn't want to be picturing Brittany's unclothed body every time she looked at her. So she glared at the girl, who sniggered, but walked off, and stepped forward to Brittany. She blinked, and made sure to focus on Brittany's head, and then she pulled down the top. Brittany was laughing, and her face was flustered, her hair cascading messily over her shoulders, her neat ponytail having been pulled out. Santana remembered how when Brittany said "Thanks", it had taken her a few seconds longer than usual to form a reply.

It was then that she had rolled over, pressing her face onto the spare pillow, wanting its cool freshness against her cheek. Her eyes flickered open again when the pillow felt warm and squashed. She sat up, watching it as if it would explain itself. She had only been awake a few minutes, everything was still hazy. She thought she could have maybe already laid on this side, but she could hear the shower, and then there was the white cell phone on her desk that wasn't hers, and a set of clothes folded neatly on the floor. By the time she had noticed all these things, she had already remembered how Brittany had slept there last night, and the amount of alcohol she had drank all of yesterday afternoon, evening and night, but that memory was thanks to the headache splitting through her head. She shouldn't have sat up so quickly.

It wasn't unusual for her to consume all her parents' alcohol every time they went away for the weekend, but all of the previous times she had done it with other people. Brittany came round after Santana called her. The phonecall at the time had been intended to do something, but before she had said anything she was holding the cell away from her face as she threw up in the kitchen sink. Santana didn't remember much else happening, but she imagined she had yelled at Brittany, probably tried to kick her out and made the whole situation even more awkward.

She stood up to go to the kitchen to get a glass of water, wincing both at the pain in her head and at her own idiocy. Drinking was rarely a good idea for Santana. She was rude, loud and forthright anyway; alcohol escalated those traits as well as releasing ones that weren't so obvious, meaning that drinking inevitably ended in fighting and arguing, followed in the early hours of the morning with tears and sobbed apologies.

Santana had never thought about it, but most of the arguments she'd gotten into were over one person in particular. Once, she had slapped Quinn for laughing at Brittany and calling her dumb. There were countless times that Rachel had found Santana sitting in her back garden, alone with a bottle of something, and had tentatively tried to prise answers out of her, all the time smiling and comforting, but invariably Santana had got defensive and had sworn, yelled at and insulted Rachel enough that she gave up.  
To her, that was the easiest way of making it stop.

In her bra and knickers she crossed the room, hoping that nothing was broken and she hadn't been sick anywhere else, because cleaning up vomit was the last thing she wanted to do. When she reached the door, she reached out her hand towards the handle. It was metal and cold, it felt nice in her hot palm. The low hum of the shower in the background stopped then, and she could hear someone stepping out and their footsteps patter against the tiled flooring in the bathroom. Santana froze; she didn't want to see Brittany until she had remembered enough to know how much she had humiliated herself, or how much she had said. She wondered if it would be better to dash out of her room and downstairs and hopefully not run into Brittany in the hall, or jump back into bed and pretend to be asleep. Realising that the latter would mean lying in the same room as Brittany as she got dressed, Santana decided that running was the better option. Evasion, avoidance, she was better at that than facing things. She held her breath and tightened her grip on the door handle, slowly turning it so it didn't click noisily. As she started to pull on it, the door came swinging towards her, so she was forced to move aside. When Brittany came striding through the doorway, Santana was still stood there, so their bodies almost collided. Instead, she stepped back quickly enough, so that Brittany just stumbled forward.

They were left inches apart from each other on the threshold of the room, both breathing heavily, Brittany from the heat of the shower and Santana from the adrenaline coursing her veins of being stood this close to Brittany, who was close enough that she could feel the heat emanating from her pink skin.  
Brittany shifted in her towel, "Sorry" she said, adjusting it and pulling it higher up her chest. Santana watched her thin fingers move towards her cleavage, and pull up the knot holding the towel around her _naked_ body.  
She cleared her throat and looked away, "No, s'fine." Her voice came out as a croak, hoarse and dry.  
"Do you want some water?"  
"I'll get it. You can-" She gestured to Brittany's form in front of her, "get dressed..."  
"Oh, yeah, sure." Then she giggled, and beamed at Santana, and casually stepped past her into the room, picking up her clothes off the floor.

Santana leant against the sink, allowing the cold water to rush to her head, feeling it quench her throat and dull her headache immediately. Before she had begun to process anything about this morning and last night, Brittany was behind her, asking if she wanted breakfast.  
"No, I just need some aspirin, I'm gonna go find some," Santana went to walk past Brittany and leave the room; she didn't want to be enclosed in a house with her, let alone a room. Whilst she was sober, anyway. Everything was uncertain. Yesterday she had cried in Brittany's arms in her car, and last night she had done God knows what, but probably something vastly inappropriate, in whatever context and now she could barely look at her. It wasn't meant to be like this, best friends weren't meant to be awkward and skirting around each other. She wasn't meant to feel this way about her best friend and Brittany was supposed to say something, or do something, not be acting casually as if nothing had happened. Too many things had happened, and Santana had no idea what to do or say next, but none of it seemed to be fazing Brittany in the slightest.

"What do you remember?"  
"I guess I threw up a lot". Her head still felt fuzzy and she could feel her stomach starting to swirl, so she pulled herself up and sat on the kitchen counter, slowly swinging her legs.  
"Yeah, it was everywhere. Gross. You shouldn't do this to yourself, San."  
She didn't know what she meant then, that she shouldn't get drunk or that she shouldn't beat herself up for feeling... whatever it was that she felt. She didn't think Brittany even knew about that part, but the way she was looking at her now suggested that she might. She was smiling cautiously, but her eyes looked worried and concerned, and she never took her gaze away from Santana's eyes, because unlike how everyone else thought Santana was fine, Brittany could tell otherwise.  
"Yeah.. Well..." she didn't know how to argue back, so she just agreed. Whatever she had meant, Santana was preoccupied with what had happened beyond being sick last night, "What else happened then? I didn't do anything stupid, did I?"  
"No. Not stupid. You were just upset, that's all. You didn't mean it."  
Brittany's forehead crinkled as she nodded her head, convincing herself that that was it.  
"What did I say? Britt, if I said anything mean to you then I swear I didn't mean it. I-" and she stopped, because she only remembered how she used to finish those sentences, when she was persuading Brittany that she wasn't mad at her, and she didn't know what she could say now.  
"You're my best friend too. I know." Brittany finished for her.  
"You've got to tell me what I said. I can't, I don't know, I can't feel normal with you until I know." She didn't think she could feel normal with Brittany whatever she had said, but it was better than not knowing at all.  
"You said something.. then I guess my reaction wasn't what you expected.. It's okay. You weren't that mean. You said sorry after."  
"Yeah. I remember." She put a hand on her forehead, and closed her eyes as she brushed her hair behind her ear. "I always say sorry, don't I, Britt? You know I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it, right?"  
"Yeah. I know."  
"I swear. If I say something and it pisses someone off or upsets them, then they can get over it. But if I say sorry it's 'cause I wish I'd never said it, you know?"  
"Okay. But I think you did mean it."  
She felt like she was being hit repeatedly by someone. She knew she sounded desperate, but things with Brittany had to get better. She couldn't lose her.  
"What did I say?" It came out angrier than she had intended, and Brittany seemed hesitant to tell her. "Please, Britt."  
Brittany nodded, and moved to sit next to Santana on the counter. When Brittany's soft thigh brushed against Santana's, she felt the skin all over her body shiver, but this time she didn't move away. It was easier like this; they were sat too close together to look at each other, so that when Brittany told her, they were both staring straight ahead at the refrigerator, both with their hair down and messy, both scared of what was going to happen next.  
"You said you were in love with me."


	7. Chapter 7 Flashback: Friday

**Author's note: **Okay, so I was requested to do a flashback chapter as a prequel to chapter 6. I wasn't originally planning on doing that, but I thought it was a good idea and I'm now so glad I did, because it explains a lot more stuff that I was going to struggle to fit in otherwise. This chapter has a lot of Brittany, but it was easier to write this time, so hopefully it comes off a little smoother :) I hope you can all remember the last chapter, this is the night before *time-travelling music*.

* * *

The first time she punched the numbers into her phone that night was in the kitchen, but she had hung up the phone before it connected, one hand holding the cell away from her face and the other gripping the side of the sink as the strong whiskey made its way past her lips for the second time.

The second time she didn't lift the receiver to her ear, she just watched the green dot moving across the screen, signalling that Brittany had answered at the other end. And then after seconds of holding her breath and willing herself to let it run a little longer, she snapped the cell phone shut.

The third time, there was something in the back of her mind telling her that she would regret what she was doing even as she did it. Although that part of her conscience was numbed by the liquid swirling in the bottle she held, clasped in her hand, and overpowered by the braver part of her, that dialled Brittany's number and left a slurred message.  
"Brittany!" she dragged out the last syllable, "You should come over; I'm drinking. I've got vodka and my parents are gone and you can come and drink it with me, 'specially 'cause you're the reason why I'm drinking. When you get here I'll toast to you Britt, 'cause this is down to you".  
Santana didn't stop to think that Brittany didn't have a car, or even a driver's licence, or that it was nearly midnight and raining, she let her cell drop to the floor and tipped her head back, letting the mouthfuls of liquid fall down her throat.

She didn't know if it was the amount of alcohol she'd drank or the smell of bleach and disinfectant from the toilet bowl that was making her head and stomach spin, but either way, moving was not an option. So she tried to focus her vision and watched the small rippling waves roll over each other and ignored how the strong smell scorched the inside of her nose the same way that her parents' vodka burned the back of her throat.  
Something in the room dripped, its perfect regularity never faltering, the water droplets falling one after the other in an endless succession. Santana's heartbeat, pounding loudly in her chest and echoing in her head shadowed the dripping. A drop, a heartbeat, another drop.

A deafening hammering noise struck straight through Santana's head, but as she lifted it to react to the direction it came from a wave of nausea spread through her. Her head fell back down and she retched futilely, her back arching and stomach lurching.

She listened to a key turn in the lock, followed by shoes being kicked off and footsteps moving through the rooms downstairs. She wished she'd locked the bathroom door, because seconds later it swung open and Brittany, with her hair wet and plastered to her face was yanking back Santana's shoulders and pushing her back against the side of the bath, pressing a mixing bowl from the kitchen into her hands. The bowl came a second too late, because being pulled across a room without warning sent the contents of her stomach up her throat and out of her mouth. Brittany tried to manoeuvre the bowl to catch the acidic liquid, but most of it had already escaped and was seeping through Santana's clothes.

"Sorry, I thought...You always throw up more when you stick your head in there, it smells really bad."  
Her head was still fuzzy and when she went to take the bowl out of Brittany's hands she couldn't grasp it and it tipped, spilling down her sleeve.  
"You're still drunk?"  
Brittany asked it as a question at first, and then started repeating it, not particularly to Santana or herself, as she dabbed at her friend's face with a wet washcloth. Santana turned her head away and tried to push Brittany away with her hands, but Brittany grabbed her wrists, and stopped speaking. She looked straight into Santana's eyes, whose arms were still being held aloft; her hands in fists, and then said, in an uncharacteristically quiet and serious voice, "You're still doing this?"

They sat, unmoving, for a while, Brittany's strong arms not faltering, until Santana relaxed her hands and uncurled her fists. She didn't pay attention to what Brittany did next, she let her arms fall and she let Brittany gently pull the dirty top over her head. Brittany didn't look back at Santana as she removed the soiled clothes and threw them into the laundry basket or as she squeezed water out of a sponge through the strands of Santana's hair that were stuck together. Santana's eyes, however, were fixed to Brittany's. She silently willed the blonde to turn to her and say something, but she only continued pulling Santana's hair through the heavy sponge. The water trickled through her thick hair and the droplets that hung onto the tip of the lock slowly fell, one by one onto Santana's arm, then rolling softly onto the floor.

Brittany stood up and, throwing the sponge into the sink, stalked out of the door and down the hall. Santana could tell that she was angry. Angry that she had been called in the middle of the night to clean up sick. Angry that she was cleaning up after her friend again.

Brittany returned in clean clothes, a set of Santana's work out pants and a t-shirt. She was holding a pair of pyjamas, and she held them out to Santana, gesturing for her to get up. When Santana didn't move, and lamely shook her head, Brittany leant forward, and in one swift movement, yanked Santana upright by her arm, so that for just a second their faces were almost touching, before Brittany swung round her head and marched out of the bathroom towards Santana's room, her arm stretched out behind her, her hand clasped to Santana's clammy fingers.

The next morning Santana had thought about how usually being in such close proximity to Brittany, especially when she was wearing nothing but her underwear, would have sent unwelcome (although not entirely unexpected) visualisations and thoughts flying through her head so quickly that she wouldn't have been able to stand being there - but at the time her head felt so thick that she couldn't contemplate walking out, so she sat and tried to focus on her reflection in the mirror in front of her. Brittany put the pyjamas back in the drawer and paced around the room, her bare feet treading softly on the worn carpet.

Her hair was wet down one side so that parts of it stuck to her cheek and others fell straggly beside her face. Her lips, normally full and pink were pale and thinner; pursed shut. The inside of her mouth tasted like fur whilst the back of her throat felt like it had been coated with sandpaper. Her irises were too dark to tell, but her pupils were wide and dilated. Two dark smudges formed the bags under her eyes.

Brittany had stopped pacing, and headed towards the doorway. She spun round as she reached for the handle. "You're going to sober up, and then we're going to fucking talk about this, San."  
She hissed the swear word under her breath, and Santana recoiled. Brittany never swore. She started out of the door, dialling a number on her cell phone as she went.  
"We can _fucking_ talk about this now, if you want!" She emphasised the word, spitting it at Brittany with a meaningful look shot at her. Brittany had turned around, and was holding the phone up to her ear, her other hand clenching to the door handle.  
"And you don't have to call Quinn every time something happens, this has _nothing_ to do with her!"  
"Okay, fine." Brittany snapped her phone shut. "Who is this about, then? Because I can't think of a single thing I've done wrong, but I'm starting to feel like it might be me!"  
Her voice was raised and her eyes were wide, and she held out her arms, indicating her frustration.  
"It's not about _anything, _Brittany, I just got drunk. Why the hell does everything have to mean something?"

Brittany dropped the phone onto Santana's desk and ran a hand through her hair. Exasperated, she stepped forward and grabbed Santana's shoulders in her hands. Santana shot upwards, their faces head to head, each of their eyes gleaming from the heat of the argument.  
"It is not _me_ who needs everything to have a meaning," she snapped, "You know exactly what I mean, stop hiding it from me." She lessened her grip and made to step away, then turned back and said, glancing at Santana, "or at least stop hiding it from yourself."

Brittany made it into the living room before Santana was behind her, her jaw clenched and hands in fists by her side.  
"What is this about, if you think you know me better than I do?"  
"You know what? I think I do know you better than you do, especially when you won't even accept what's going on."  
They stood at opposite sides of the room. Brittany was giving up, she couldn't be bothered to care anymore, not if Santana didn't care, not if Santana didn't even realise.  
"Go on then!" Santana shouted, surprised at the force at which her lungs shot out the words, "If you know me so well, and you know what's up, why don't you just tell me?"  
Brittany opened her mouth to speak, and then faltered, closing it again. She looked up at Santana, who was waiting for an answer, her chest falling and rising heavily.  
"I- I don't- You always tell me. You haven't told me." She looked defeatedly at Santana, who nodded, her chin set. "Quinn... and Rachel, and the others, they said stuff to me, like, about you... and me. And they said how-" She was still staring at Santana, but the brunette's head was ducked, her face hidden. "They said I shouldn't say anything, and I should just be, like, normal. But they didn't tell me properly. They thought I knew. _I_ thought I knew. San?"  
Santana lifted her head, her lips pursed and her eyes closed. Slowly, she opened them, and focused them at Brittany, who looked worried and hesitant.  
She carried on, "San, you have to tell me."

Santana knew she didn't just mean she had to tell her so that Brittany would understand it. She had to tell her because Brittany was her best friend, and because she told Brittany everything. Because no-one else, not even Quinn or Rachel, were close enough to do anything. Because Brittany was the only person who could make a difference to her at all. Maybe Brittany did just want to understand, but without the other reasons Santana would never have told her anything.

She was still angry, still drunk, and mostly scared, but they were so close that the words had to be said.  
"Fine! You don't understand, I'll tell you!" she shouted, and Brittany looked taken-aback that they were still arguing, but Santana could feel the anger inside her, the resentment that she was having to spell it out to Brittany when she was the last person she wanted to tell, but the only person she could. "I'm in love with you! That's what it is, now go and leave me the fuck alone!"  
Santana stood, her mouth still open from the last word she had said and her breathing heavy and fast from what had just flown out of her insides and into the space between them.

Brittany didn't say anything, she just watched Santana screw up her eyes, and she stood still as Santana stepped backwards, clutching onto the doorframe. She didn't move as Santana pressed her forehead against the wood and caught her breath, but when started blinking and wiping at her cheeks furiously, Brittany stepped forward and held on to Santana's wrist.  
"Come on" she said softly, tugging at her wrist.  
Santana turned to face her, her eyes bloodshot and her cheeks shining from the tear stains. "Get off me." Her voice was steady and her words calculated, and she made sure that she didn't waver her stare.  
"No, come on, I'm putting you to bed now."  
Santana pulled her arm free quickly, and pushed her palms against Brittany's shoulders, hard.  
"Did you hear what I just told you?" she snapped. Brittany nodded, a wave of confusion spreading across her face. "Then do you think I _want _you holding my hand and putting me to bed? What the hell, Brittany? I don't want you anywhere near me, you don't even understand." She wasn't looking at Brittany, but she looked straight into her blue eyes to say what she said next. She wanted it to sting, and she wanted Brittany to feel it. "You're too fucking stupid."

Santana stalked out of the room and back to her bedroom. "You're drunk" Brittany called out after her, but Santana was already out of earshot and Brittany's voice came out quiet and cracked.

She had left it two hours. She had called Mike, and then Quinn, and they had told her the same thing. Santana was drunk, she definitely didn't mean it. She mentioned to Quinn as they were about to hang up what Santana had told her, which had woken Quinn up, as she started asking if Brittany was sure, and what exactly had Santana said, and then she laughed and said "No, Britt, you definitely don't have anything to worry about. She doesn't hate you at all."

After standing outside Santana's bedroom door with her ear pressed against the wood, and she was sure that the other girl was asleep, Brittany tentatively pushed open the door. The room was dark, the curtains drawn and all the lights out. Brittany always slept with her lamp light on.  
She watched Santana's sleeping form, and tried to think about it all. Santana had said she was in love with her, and Quinn had been giggling and kept saying "I knew it". _I love you_ was what people said before they kissed each other. But Kurt and Mercedes always said they loved each other too. She decided it didn't matter, because Santana was asleep, and she could ask her in the morning.

Brittany gingerly stepped forward towards the bed. She wasn't sure if she should get into it, in light of what Mike had been going on about down the phone, but she didn't want to sleep on the couch, and it would be even weirder sleeping in Santana's parents' bed. She looked at how long Santana's eyelashes were when her eyes were closed, and how her hair spread out all over the pillow, like long flicks of black paint. She was _pretty_. Brittany smiled, and thought about how she loved the warm feeling in her tummy when she looked at Santana's defined features and smooth curves, and how much bigger it had been earlier, when she had felt the skin on Santana's back under her fingertips as she took off her dirty shirt.

Brittany climbed into the bed next to Santana and lifted the duvet over herself, the warmth from Santana's body spreading over her.  
A while later, after she had settled in to the steady sound of Santana's breathing, Brittany started to drift off, but she heard Santana quietly say her name, and then "I'm sorry".  
She didn't open her eyes, just shifted her body closer to Santana's and wrapped her arms round the other girl's shoulders, leaning in to the hand that she felt resting on her collarbone.  
"It's okay, you'll forget about it in the morning. I already have."

* * *

I'm sorry in advance to the people who may be mad at me for having sad Brittany D: It had to be done! I'm annoyed at mean Santana but they had happy cuddles.  
Next chapter will probably be a continuation of straight after chapter 6, maybe the next day, idk yet.


End file.
